


Oneirataxia

by ItsyBitsyBatsySpider



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Injury, But I love the idea, Coma, Deadlights, Deadlights (IT), Dreams and Nightmares, Drinking, Eddie Lives, Eddie's dead, F/M, Gen, Hospitals, M/M, Mentioned Maggie Tozier & Wentworth Tozier, Mind Games, No idea where this is going, Out of Body Experiences, because Andi Muschietti is a fucking coward, but i'll try to clear it up, but not really, i will explain that later, not Stan tho, obviously, this may get a little confusing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:14:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22182391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsyBitsyBatsySpider/pseuds/ItsyBitsyBatsySpider
Summary: When you find yourself in darknessWith just the thoughts your mind invents,Is it scarier to have them at all,Or that they’re making sense?...A story where Richie didn't actually wake up from the Deadlights
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough & Richie Tozier, Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon, Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Mike Hanlon & Eddie Kaspbrak, Mike Hanlon & Richie Tozier
Comments: 34
Kudos: 33





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hewwo,  
> I literally have no idea where this fic is going, but i know that i really wanted to write this.  
> Hope you guys enjoy!

_ When you find yourself in darkness _

_ With just the thoughts your mind invents, _

_ Is it scarier to have them at all, _

_ Or that they’re making sense? _

* * *

This was never supposed to happen. 

When the Losers came back to Derry, back to the hometown where they had endured horrifying nightmares and scarring pasts, they had expected the worst of it. They had thought they were all going to die defeating It, and one of them did before they even began. They didn’t want to consider it, but deep down they all knew that chances of surviving were slim.

So when  _ this  _ happened…. when one of them got hurt, and wasn’t waking up from their sleep, it had scared them much more than if one of them died. 

Because if he didn’t wake up, if he didn’t survive this and get to walk out of this with a full life ahead of him… well, to some it was a fate worse than death. 

To be there, but not quite. To be okay, but not really. And to have a family waiting for you just to wake up, so that they could see your smile again or hear your laughter, it was agonizing to the remaining Loser’s that sat in the hospital. 

Ben walked through the hallway, sterile fluorescent light glowing from the ceiling and casting the floor in a strangely comforting light. The five cups of coffee resting in their drink holders sloshed around in their cardboard cups as he strode down the linoleum floor and walked towards the waiting room, where his friends were sitting in hospital chairs. 

They all looked exhausted.  _ ‘Why shouldn’t they be.’  _ Ben thought. 

He quietly handed out the drinks, all of them giving some mumbled “Thank you” as he handed off the coffee to them. All except one cup. 

Ben glanced around the room, looking for the missing Loser, before turning back to Bev. Eyes sad as the realization dawned on him. “Is he still with him?” he asked. 

Bev nodded. Her shower-damp hair bouncing in messy curls as she looked back down at cup of coffee in her hands. It felt warm against her clammy skin. 

After It’s lair had collapsed, and after they had all gotten their friend to the hospital in the nick of time, they all went back to the townhouse one by one to shower and change out of their horrendous clothes. Waiting for someone to wake up from a coma was a little easier to do when you didn’t have sewer water, grime, and blood caked to your clothes. 

“Has he eaten yet?” Ben asked softly, cautious of disturbing the other visitors with his voice. Bev shrugged, the gift shop sweatshirt she just bought rubbing against her shoulders comfortably. 

“I don’t know. Maybe Bill got him something? But it’s been a few stressful days.”

“It’s only been 36 hours.” 

Bev looked up at Ben, her hands trembling ever so lightly, and she was thankful for the cup that helped occupy her them. “Really?” She asked, her voice barely above a whisper and a sudden weight of tiredness blanketing over her shoulders. Ben nodded and fidgeted with the coffee cup on his hand.

“Yeah. Do you want to go back to the townhouse and get some sleep? No one will blame you if you do, Bev.”

The redhead shook her head, taking a swig of the bitter hospital coffee. She cringed at the taste of burned beans. “No. I want to wait for him to wake up. He’s one of my best friends.” 

Ben sighed. “He’s all of our best friend’s. But if you feel tired, tell me and we’ll go back to the house, okay? One of us is hospitalized already. I don’t want you to end up in here too because of some sleep deprivation.” 

Bev scoffed, the ghost of a smile fluttering across her lips for a mere second before vanishing. Ben turned back to the hallway and looked back to the redhead. “He’s in room 308 right?” 

Bev looked up, her eyes glassy and clouded with tiredness, and nodded numbly. She took a sip of the coffee and revelled the feeling of warm coffee warming up her insides. Even if it was crappy. Ben leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, smelling the leftover lavender shampoo in her hair as he did so. 

“I’m gonna go check on him.”

Bev hummed in response and then Ben turned around and began walking down the corridor once more. Still holding the remaining coffee in it’s drink holder. He reached the door leading into Eddie and Richie’s room, and the numbers on the door seemed to glare out like a lighthouse in the fog. 

Ben took in a deep breath, feeling his heart palpitate nervously, before going to turn the handle and walk inside. The man tried his best not to make a sound as he entered the room, and the inhabitants barely made a move as he came in. Well, one of them didn’t exactly have the option to move, and the other was nearly asleep on the hospital chair next to the bed. Head resting on one of his hands and leaning against one of the arm rests in a failed attempt at comfort. Ben vaguely noted that something was held in one of his hands. 

“Hey,” Ben said softly to the dark-haired man sitting in the chair by the bed. “How’s he doing?”

A quiet hum and heavy eye-lids opening indicated that he had been close to sleep when Ben had entered the room. “Still hasn’t woken up.” he said, voice gravelly from screaming at Niebolt and lack of speaking. Ben nodded. 

“Yeah, seems like it. I brought you some coffee, if that helps.” he said as he walked around the bed and handed off the coffee to his friend, who smiled tightly.

“Always does, thanks Ben.” he said. 

“Anytime.” 

He shut his eyes as he held the coffee cup and began rubbing the worry lines in his forehead. Ben placed a comforting hand on his shoulder as he stared at their friend lying in the bed. An IV attached to his hand and dark shadows hung beneath his eyes, which hadn’t opened in days. Scruff had begun growing on his face and at this rate it nearly made him unrecognizable. A nasty cut had been stitched and patched up, thanks to the doctors, but it still left Ben wondering how much it hurt when he got it. 

All in all, he looked like shit, and it was honestly a miracle how they had gotten him out in time before the house had collapsed. Ben, at one point, had truly thought that they were going to have to leave him behind. And he would forever feel guilty for letting himself think that. Because what on earth  _ was  _ he thinking? They were family and he was one of his best friends. And they were Losers... Losers stuck together. Always. 

Ben glanced back to the man sitting beside him and sighed. He didn’t look much better than his counterpart. 

Unshaven with dirty grimy clothes that had blood all over them. Deep, dark bags hung beneath his eyes, showing how much he had slept in the past day or so, and his normally fine hair was left unruly and uncared for. He was clutching a pair of cracked glasses in one of his trembling hands, and Ben felt a wave of empathy for him. Blood could be seen on them from where he was standing and it stood out against the clear cracks and looked black in the hospital light. And even from there Ben could see the deep weariness pooling in his eyes.  


Ben swallowed thickly, and cast his gaze down to his cup of coffee. Lukewarm and bitter. 

“I don’t know what to do, Ben.” he said, his voice gruff. “It’s all my fault. I don’t know how long it’ll be before he wakes up and it scares me.” the man looked up at his friend, his chocolate brown eyes wide and glassy with unshed tears. “What if he  _ never  _ wakes up! What if I never get the chance to tell him that I’m sor-” 

“Hey no, don’t say that.” Ben said suddenly, kneeling down by the chair to look him in the eye and interrupting whatever he was going to say. “Don’t you dare do this to yourself.” 

“But what if-”

“No.” he sighed. “Don’t do that to yourself, Eddie. He knew what he was doin- well kind of- but he sti-”

“But I could’ve gotten Richie  _ killed!”  _ Eddie yelled, gesturing to the man himself lying in the hospital bed. The coffee cup teetered precariously as some of the drink spilled out, and Ben saw that he was clutching the glasses dangerously tight. He wondered if Eddie was afraid they would snap in half from the sheer force of his grip. Maybe not.“And for all I know, I  _ fucking did!”  _

“No! Eddie, listen to me.” 

“What? Are you gonna tell me that everything’s going to be okay, simply because it has to be? Well hate to break it to you, Ben, but that’s not how the world works. And as much as I wish it did, it just doesn’t! For all I know he could be in a coma for the rest of his life and he will just lie there and waste away and I'll never get to tell him how sorry I am and he'll never get to wake up, or do another comedy show, or see another sunrise, or tell another 'Your mom' joke, or leave this hospital, or open his eyes, or see any of us again, and it will all be MY FAULT!” Eddie slammed the cup on the bedside table, some of the coffee spilling out of it. And with a tired gasp Eddie buried his head in his hands. His shoulders shook as hours upon hours of stress weighed down on him and it was finally taking its toll. And Ben knew that he couldn't be angry with Eddie.  


Because as heated as his words had been, Ben knew that they weren’t aimed at him. Even after twenty-seven years, all of them still knew each other enough to know when one of them was strained. What they were like under stress or anxiety. And Eddie just happened to be like a rubber band. That was the best way to describe it. Stretching farther and tighter until there was no more room left to stretch, and when there was no more rubber to tighten, he would just snap. 

And after what had gone down in the past few days, Ben couldn’t exactly blame him for snapping. 

Ben placed a hand on his shoulder and began rubbing small circles into Eddie’s collarbone. “Okay,” he said softly. “I’m not going to pretend that everything is alright. But Eddie? You have to remember that he’s a fighter. And that Richie is scrappy and annoying and too much of a pain in the ass to just die like that.” Eddie scoffed at that. “And if Richie were to actually die, he wouldn’t be taken out by something as dumb as a demonic space clown that can be defeated with verbal abuse. I still can’t believe we managed that by the way,” Eddie glanced back over to Richie, who still didn’t so much as twitch a finger the entire time they had been talking. Typical. 

“So no, I’m not gonna tell you that everything will be okay. But I am asking you to have some hope that it could.”

Eddie looked back at Ben, his lips tugged downward in a frown and the bandage patch on his cheek crinkled at the expression. 

"Please have some hope. If not for you then for Richie. but if you can then maybe save some for yourself." Eddie stared at the floor for a moment longer, rubbing his thumb along the bridge of the glasses, before jerking his head in a stiff nod. His eyes flitted up to look at his friend. 

“Thanks, Ben.” he mumbled. "I'll try... but it's really hard."

The man smiled kindly. "I know." He stood back up, and gave Eddie a one-sided hug. 

Thumbing the lid of his coffee cup he began walking towards the door, he wanted to leave Richie and Eddie alone for now. And besides, he had interrupted Eddie while he was trying to sleep. He was almost out the door, hand on the cool handle, when he heard Eddie call out for him.  Ben turned around, his face soft. 

“Yeah?” he asked. Eddie fidgeted with the glasses again, and scratched the side of his face nervously. 

“Do you think, uhm, you could get me a new change of clothes? These ones reek and my bag is, uh, back at the townhouse.” 

Ben smiled. “Sure, Eddie.”  Another beat of silence, and once again as Ben turned to leave, Eddie called out for him again. 

“Do you really think Rich is gonna be okay?” 

The man sighed, before sparing another glance at Eddie over his shoulder. “Can only hope.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully these chapters will get longer the more i write. I dont usually write such short chapters. Maybe the next one will be longer!  
> Hope you guys enjoy!

Richie stared at the wet sidewalk listlessly, as he half-heartedly called for a cab.

The airplane ride had gone by in a monochromatic blur of blues and silvers and nothing of importance had happened. No delays, no trouble with layovers, no annoying aisle partners, so to Richie, it’s like it never really happened at all. All he had done was put in his headphones and stare out the window as the plane took off from Maine, landed in Denver, and then landed in the LAX airport. 

No one tried to talk to him, which was a bit unordinary seeing as Richie tended to be recognized by a fan every few times or so, and none of the airline hostesses gave him much attention, so it was a little strange, but Richie wasn’t complaining. In fact he was thankful for it. The less people he had to deal with the better. The ride was relatively normal aside from the irregular baby crying. But then again, wouldn’t that be considered normal? 

He checked his messages, and lo and behold, he had missed a ton of calls from his manager. Ranging from emails to texts to calls to even Skype, and Richie picked up on a single one. The man sighed, dreading the upcoming conversation he would have to have with his manager, and exited out of the apps. 

But just then his phone pinged, and when he glanced down to see who it was, was pleasantly surprised to see that it was a message from Bev. Richie opened up the chat, and read what she had sent. 

_ Missing you already Trashmouth.  _

That almost got a smile out of him. He stared at the text for a few moments longer, not feeling up for talking right now, and pocketed his phone. He would get back to her later. 

A cab pulled up to the sidewalk in front of Richie, and in one swift motion, he threw his single duffel bag onto the worn leather seat before climbing in himself. The rest after that was a fuzzy as Richie told the driver where to go and leaned his head against the glass to stare out into the unextraordinary world. He barely took notice of the jingling of the car decorations, or the quiet staticky hum of the radio as the drive went on. Soon they left the main city and drove towards downtown Los Angeles. 

The light shadows of trees streaked by and speeding lights from passing cars glared in Richie’s eyes. Their lights bright and all-consuming as they sped faster and faster towards him, before suddenly disappearing in an instant. 

Richie stared at the road, counting the small, white strips that divided the two lanes until he lost count and started over again. 

Another car drove past and Richie’s eyes reflected again. The light felt like it burned.

He started tapping the beat of some random song against his thigh, another way to distract him from the hollowness in his chest. The one that he had been trying to avoid since leaving Derry. Another car sped by, and he blinked away the spots that danced in his vision, looking out into the dark cityscape again. 

He ran a hand through his hair. It felt greasy and stiff. 

Another car drove by, and the LED lights hurt to even look at. Richie flinched away from the sight, harshly reminded of something that he did not want to relive ever again in his life. With a tired sigh of acceptance, he closed his eyes shut, but that turned out to be a mistake. 

The darkness behind his eyelids morphed into a face he knew all too well, one he had known for years only to forget and then remember once again. He just had to remember his damned face, didn’t he?

Richie opened his eyes. Another car drove past. The lights hurt. He closed them again. He saw a flickering cavern. Opened. They hurt. Closed. There was blood on his hands. 

Opened. 

Closed. 

Opened.

Closed. 

Opened. 

Closed. 

An endless repetition of pain that seemed to persist no matter what Richie did. The dark-haired man growled in frustration before once again running a hand through his hair. He hated the feeling of stringy locks between his fingers and the reminder of how poorly he had been taking care of himself. The heels of his palms pressing roughly against his eyes and fingers scratching his skin. A distraction. That’s what he needed. He needed something to distract him from this overwhelming ache that gnawed inside of him. 

Just for a moment... just for a second so that he could catch his breath, and then he could face it again. 

But did he even want to face it? Did he want to face reality knowing that out there  _ he  _ wasn’t…. 

Did Richie even want to face reality? 

“Okay, we’re here.” the cab driver said, and Richie dropped his hands, pulled out of his thoughts as he looked out the window and saw his apartment building standing before him. Some of the windows dark and a few glowing gold. Richie stared at it for a moment. He was home. If this is what counted as a home. To him it was just the place he lived in; there was no emotional anchor here tying him to it. It was just a structure made of concrete and steel. 

Mindlessly grabbing his bag and paying the driver, Richie mumbled an incoherent thanks and climbed out of the cab. Stepping onto the familiar sidewalk and breathing in the warm, salty, flowery breeze that could only be found in California. Richie thought back to the airport and how it wasn’t so long ago that he had been getting into the cab.

Wasn’t it supposed to be an hour and a half drive from here to the airport? It had seemed much shorter than that. Richie sighed. He must be really out of it if the car ride felt like fifteen minutes. 

He shouldered his bag, waved away the cab, and began walking towards his building. It didn't take long for him to get to his apartment, with the doorman giving him a polite nod, despite the late hour, and the elevator music playing the  _ Escape Song _ . Richie listened to the story as the man sang about meeting up with his woman at the cafe, and on a normal day he might’ve sang along. 

But it wasn’t a normal day. 

When he walked through the front door, he immediately was overcome with a feeling of exhaustion and emptiness. Richie took a step back from the sudden onslaught of emotion, and gulped down the lump that had formed in his throat. He placed a hand on the doorframe to steady himself and after a few breaths, and an embarrassingly long time, he took another step into his apartment and shut the door. That had almost felt like an anxiety attack. For a second there Richie couldn’t breathe and his ears began to ring uncomfortably. It was like static was filling up his head and everything else was an incoherent fuzzball. He closed his eyes, and consciously dropped his shoulders, releasing the tension that had unknowingly been building up. All of this stress did wonders for his old and creaky body. 

Throwing the bag into the couch he immediately headed for the bathroom, rubbing his face with his hands as he strode down the familiar hallway, his body acting on muscle memory. Richie walked into the bathroom and turned on the sink, splashing his face with the cold water and rubbing his eyes. 

He needed to get out of his head. It was becoming too overwhelming and all of these thoughts swirled in his brain, getting louder and louder until he could barely hear his voice. It was like a thunderstorm. The rain pounding on the concrete, thunder rumbling and shaking his very core, and lightning cracking loudly and ripping apart the sky. It was too loud. He couldn’t think straight, or at all. 

The water dripped down his chin and nose as he steeled himself to look at himself in the mirror; and instantly he could sense a feeling of wrongness. 

He looked at the mirror, at his reflection, and stared at it. Something felt  _ very  _ off. Like, it looked normal, it was reflection, why would there be something wrong with his reflection, but a sense of dread washed over him as he stared at it. 

He tilted his head side to side, inspecting his face, his jaw, his eyes, but no matter what, Richie couldn't pinpoint exactly what was causing the feeling of dread. He shook his head, giving up on the silly notion and reaching for the towel hanging nearby. 

He scrubbed his face dry with the towel and turned to exit the bathroom, his shoulders slumped and eyes heavy with exhaustion. Richie went into his bedroom, the door handle turning silently as he opened the door. 

_ That’s odd.  _ He thought. His door handle usually squeaked every time he turned it. Eh, maybe it just didn’t do it this time. That’s okay, Richie was kind of tired of all the squeaking, it was about time it fixed itself. 

Richie changed his pants for sweats, set down his glasses on his nightstand, and climbed into bed, not bothering to change out of his hoodie. Hugging the pillow beneath his head and burrowing his face into the soft fabric, he inhaled the smell of mustiness and tried to forget how weird and horrible everything has been. 

His body was beyond tired, and if there was a word he could use that would better describe the ache in his bones, the tightness in his chest, the hollowness of his heart, and the thunderstorm in his mind, then he would use it. If only there were such a word. But for now, ‘ _ tired’  _ would do.

Richie shifted, moving his face from the pillow so that he could breathe easier and looked around the dark, shadowy room. It didn’t take long for the blanket of sleep to cover Richie, and soon his eyes closed shut, feeling unnaturally heavy and lethargic. 

* * *

Richie dreamt of darkness. It was cold and empty and hollow. Shadows crawled across the floor, inky blackness consumed everything, and a single light shone down from nowhere. He stood stock still, his arms hanging limp at his sides and feeling as if there was a rope tightening around his chest, and with every breath it grew tighter. The insides of his arms itched profusely, yet when he tried, he couldn’t move his arms to scratch them. 

He couldn’t move. 

Blue eyes darted around the ‘room’, glistening with fright and uncertainty. He began to breathe quicker, his heart pounding in his chest as if it was the rain that thundered inside his head. Richie squinted his eyes shut, praying to wake up, mumbling nothings and meaningless words in a vain attempt to comfort himself. 

“It’s okay, you’re fine…” he strangled out, his voice thick and tight. “..a dream. Just a...just a dream.” Blood roared in his ears, heart beating so loud that he could just imagine his ribs cracking from the force, and just then he heard it. 

It was the tail of a whisper... 

Nothing more than a murmur…

But it sent a cold shiver down Richie’s spine. 

“-at’s happen-? Wha-... -wrong.. -th -im?” 

Richie suppressed a whimper. 

“-ELL ME WHAT’S WR-... HIM!” 

He knew that voice. 

“RICHIE!” 

Richie jolted awake, the mutter of a name leaving the tip of his tongue, and his heart palpitating violently. He struggled to breathe, hand shooting straight to his chest and feeling for the invisible rope that threatened him. He sat there, shaking for a good long while, trying to calm his erratic heart rate and trying so hard not to breakdown right then and there. Richie felt a dampness on his cheeks, and when he went to wipe them away, they came back wet. 

He was crying. 

The man rubbed at his eyes, pressing against them so hard that he began to see stars. He wanted to scrub away any sign of his crying, of his tears, and he sat there and breathed. Head in his hands and each breath shaking until it eventually he could inhaled steadily. His forehead was cold with sweat and Richie felt a shiver go down his spine as a small draft flowed in from the vent. 

Richie lied down on his bed. Covers twisted, sweat drying uncomfortably on his skin, hands resting on top of his chest, and he focused on the rise and fall of it as he consciously kept his breathing calm. 

He stared up at the dark ceiling, and tried to remember what had happened in his dream. Well, it was more like a nightmare actually. The flash of an image crossed Richie’s mind, and he saw darkness, and he could remember a sense of distress from the dream. Was someone calling out for him? He thought he remembered a voice. It was a voice he knew. 

Eyebrows drawing together in confusion, Richie continued to stare at his ceiling, as if it had some way of giving him the answers to the questions he had. But when the answers were withheld from him, he rolled onto his side, arm tucking underneath his pillow. 

The feeling of dread and still hung over him like a cloud, unsettling Richie enough to keep him from truly relaxing. Even though he was in his room, in his home, in his apartment complex, in his city. They had defeated It, that evil, and there was no way it could’ve survived and followed him all the way out here. They crushed Its heart in their hands. He could remember how it felt, the small, beating heart finally giving way and crumbling away like ash. The warm presence of his friends standing by his side as they all watched the nightmare that plagued their dreams and lives come to an end and the sensation of fleeting peace. 

Well, almost all of them. 

But even with these reminders, Richie still had a hard time falling back asleep. He didn’t want to be lost in that darkness again and he sure as hell didn’t want to listen to those cries. He was afraid. 

With a sigh and a frustrated groan, Richie threw off his covers except for one, and wrapping it around his shoulders like a cloak, he left his room. He stumbled towards the kitchen to turn on the coffee pot and stare out his apartment window. 

He did not sleep that night. 

  
  


But by the time the sun rose, awakening a new day and painting the sky gold and pink with a dash of blue, Richie had had four cups of coffee and had forgotten why he was up. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whelp!! Im back bitchhheess!! It took me four months but i made it back!! Thanks to Millenialpink22 for helping me get back on track, you're a beautiful celestial being!   
> This chapter is substantially longer than the last few chapters, which i am glad about, and it's got a lot more into it than the last few.   
> I hope you guys enjoy!

“Here’s your meal, sir. Enjoy.” 

“Thank you.” Eddie mumbled beneath his breath as he took the club sandwich and coffee from the kind cashier. He made sure to tip her relatively well, since she had done a good job and Eddie briefly remembered the days when nobody tipped him at his cafe job back in college. 

He strode away from the hospital cafe, head low and shoulders slumped, and began making his way back to Richie’s room. It had been two days since he was admitted, and even though it was too early to tell, Eddie didn’t think that Richie was getting any better. Despite what the doctors said, who were all completely baffled over the fact that Richie should be up and about and not bed-ridden. They had said that his body was functioning as if he was awake, and going about his day, but that was clearly not true since he was in a coma, unresponsive, and with needles sticking him. 

Eddie sighed, running a hand down his face. He was surprised he hadn’t spontaneously combusted yet. He took a swig of his coffee, and marched up the stairs, waving ‘hello’ to some of the nurses in charge of Richie, who had quickly come to realize that the phrase ‘visiting hours’ didn’t apply to Eddie. 

He walked into Richie’s room, and immediately went over to the space he had claimed for himself. It was only two chairs pushed together to make a shitty bed, one that he had slept in the night before, a blanket, courtesy of Bev, and a pillow that one of the night nurses had handed him upon seeing that he was there. It wasn’t much, but it was his and Eddie would be damned if he gave it up. 

He set down his food on the desk next to Richie’s bed, and began unpacking it. He glanced at Richie sadly as he ate, looking for something,  _ anything,  _ that would show that he was getting better. But from the looks of it, from the unshifting eyelids, twitchless fingers, and steady breathing, nothing had changed. 

Eddie tried not to let it affect him, but that was easier said than done. 

Just thinking about Richie never getting better left a rotten taste in his mouth. And it saddened him greatly. That fear of never hearing Richie’s voice again, no more “Eds” or “Eddie Spaghetti”, left him feeling heavy and tired. Richie didn’t even  _ look  _ like himself on that bed. Attached to machines with needles and tubes and whatnot surrounding him, with pale skin, dark circles beneath his eyes, and hair greasy from not being washed recently. It just didn’t look like him at all. Nothing like the vibrant and energetic person Eddie had come to know and love and call his friend. 

Richie was usually so bright. Not literally, but you know those people who wear their souls on their face? 

The people who you always want to be around because they have so much Light coming from them. They light up a room, warm a cold day, lend their warmth, and bring laughter and relief on even the darkest of hours. They’re the people you seek out in life, the kinds you don’t ever want to live without, and they’re the kind of people who stand by you and are there for you even when you feel the most alone in the world. They’re  _ warm  _ and  _ bright  _ and  _ true-hearted  _ and  _ comforting. _ And when you’re around them, you feel like coming home. That’s the kind of person Richie is. Always there to make you laugh to feel better, and willing to give a warm hug and horrible joke in order to lift your spirits. 

Richie was Bright and Eddie couldn’t imagine a life without him. 

Where Richie didn’t annoy the shit out of him, or call him dumb nicknames or make his life a living hell. If life wasn’t a personal eternal punishment conducted by one crass Trashmouth with a penchant for Your Mom jokes and bickering and bantering, then Eddie didn’t want it. 

The man was brought out of his thoughts when a knock resounded from the door Eddie lifted his head tiredly and spoke a barely audible “Come in.” He was pleasantly surprised to see Bev walk through, with a cup of tea in hand and a bag with something in it. 

“Morning, Eddie,” she said with a soft, greeting smile. “How are you doing?” 

Eddie let out a bone-aching sighed. “Fine. Well, as fine as I can be when my best friend is in the hospital and in an unpredictable coma... You know how it is.” 

Bev moved to sit next to him, pulling up the chair from the other side of the bed and setting down next to her friend. She put down the bag and looked at Eddie. “Yeah, I guess I do.” 

Her eyes trailed over to Richie, her eyes sad. “How’s he doing?” she asked. 

“Same as before. Not a single change.” Bev hums. 

“It’s weird seeing him like this.”She said softly. Eddie scoffed, thumbing over the lid of his coffee cup. 

“Tell me about it. I half expect him to pop up and fucking yell  _ ‘Psych!’ _ or some shit.” 

“Honestly? Me too. This just doesn’t seem real.” 

Eddie swallowed thickly, his jaw clenching. “But it is.” he says, voice hard and no longer soft and edged with sleep. Bev gives him a glance, her lips pressed into a thin line, as if she was debating whether or not to say something. In the end she chose against it and leaned back in her chair. 

“Yeah… it is.” 

She took a sip of her tea, peppermint, if Eddie was to go by the scent of it. That’s a good tea to have. It helps with headaches, migraines, and digestive issues as well as clears up the sinuses and it improves energy. 

Eddie rubbed his forehead. Why did he have to know such random knowledge? And about tea of all things. But oh well, it was something to help distract him from the sleeping form in front of him. 

“So is anyone else coming or is it just you today?” Eddie asks after a moment of silence. Bev turned to look at him, giving her friend her full attention. She began fidgeting with the hem of her shirt.

“Well, it’s both me and Ben today. Bill’s back at the inn trying to extend our stay and Mike is over at the library trying to find anything that could help.” 

Eddie’s eyebrows furrowed. “Has he found anything?” he asked, voice tight and close to breaking. He cleared his throat, trying to strengthen it before he had to speak again. 

“No, not yet. He hasn’t found anything that we don’t know already.” 

Eddie chuckled coldly. “Great, just great.” 

Bev placed a hand on his arm and Eddie turned to look at her, lips pressed into a scowl and eyebrows scrunched together in clear concern. 

“Eddie it’s gonna be alright.” Bev says, her voice soft and reassuring. 

“You don’t know that.” he snaps, but Bev persisted. 

“He’s going to wake up, and it’s going to be fine.”

“How can it be fine, Bev?” Eddie said, shaking off her arm and running a hand through his hair. He vaguely notes that he should take a shower the next chance he gets. “He’s probably gonna blame me for getting him in this situation!” 

Bev scoffs. “Eddie, please, as if Richie would blame you for anything. He’s like a puppy and you're his owner, he thinks everything you do is amazing.” That threw him for a momentary loop.

“I don’t think I like that analogy.”

“It’s true though.” Bev said with a shrug. Eddie huffed and tried to settle back into his seat, ignoring the way the cushions barely offered any comfort and hurt his ass. 

“Fine, fine, whatever. But how can he forgive me for this? I was the one who didn’t reach him in time, I wasn’t  _ brave  _ enough, and I was the one to throw the fence post! And sure, it got him out of the Deadlights or whatever, but he’s in a  _ coma!  _ In the  _ hospital!  _ And we don’t know when he’s going to wake up, if ever, and I’m just so scared that I’ll never get to say that I’m sorry!” Eddie folded in on himself, holding his face in his hands as he tried to get control over his breathing once again. 

Bev was silent for a moment, and the silence unnerved him. 

“Is that all you wanna say to him?” 

Eddie looked up at her and swallowed down the rising lump in his throat. “What?” he asked, his voice small. Bev looked at him more intently and leaned forward. 

“Is that all you wanna say to him? That you’re sorry?” 

A chill went down his spine. “What..what else is there to say?” 

Bev shrugged, reclining back into her chair nonchalantly and picking at the lid of her cup. “I don’t know. It just seems like you want to say more than just ‘I’m sorry’.” She gives Eddie a knowing look, and he snaps his gaping mouth shut. Eyes hardening and fingers trembling. 

“I- uh,” 

“You just seem to be really distraught over apologizing for something you don’t need to apologize for.”

“Bev-”

“And I think you’d want to figure out what else you’re going to say when Richie wakes up. You know he’s not going to want to hear you say sorry over something you had no control over.” 

She reached out to give his arm a reassuring squeeze, and then turned around to pick up the bag she had brought in, placing it in her lap before opening it. The rustle of the plastic filled the room and Eddie found himself looking curiously at what Bev had. “I also brought some gifts for you. I figured you’d want to have these if you’re intent on staying here every night.” She said as she brandished his electric toothbrush, shaving kit, and some deodorant. Eddie’s shoulders slumped in relief and a tentative smile made its way onto his face. 

“Thanks, Bev,” he said as she handed them to him. “I really appreciate it.” 

She smiled. “You’re welcome Eddie. Why don’t you go clean yourself up while I keep watch.” 

His eyes flickered to Richie for just a second, feeling anxious at leaving him for just a moment. But upon looking back at Bev and seeing her reassuring gaze and sensing her comforting presence, he decided to let his anxieties go for just a moment. Or to at least repress them. “Sure, that sounds good.” 

Eddie got up from his spot, joints aching and his back cracking from being stuck in one place for too long, brushing aside the embarrassed flush that came up on his cheeks, and made his way towards the bathroom. He made it about two steps before Bev spoke again. 

“Hey, Eddie?” she called from behind him. Said man turned around to see his friend giving him a kind look and a soft smile. “He’s going to be okay.” Eddie returned her smile, although it didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“I know.” 

* * *

Richie knew that something was off. 

He didn’t know exactly what it was yet, but there was something off about…  _ everything.  _

It started with waking up and just feeling this wrong tiredness. He felt heavy and stiff and as if he hadn’t moved for days, but that didn’t make sense. He figured he must’ve slept wrong in his bed last night. But then there was this other feeling, as if all of the organs in his body shifted a couple inches to the side, and the blood inside his veins was flowing the wrong way. 

In the moment, he had chalked it up to grieving over his best friend who died in the sewers of his decrepit hometown, and had tried to get up and go about his day as normal. But as much as Richie tried convincing himself of that, the more it became clear that that was not the case. There was something  _ very _ wrong, and he couldn’t figure out what. 

And not just with himself either, it was everything! Every time he walked in front of a building, one with those glass walls or windows or some shit, he’d see his reflection and would get the same feeling as he did the day before when he looked into his mirror. It was the same wrongness that left his blood curdling and a haunting feeling hanging over him. 

The sun also felt too bright. Which at first doesn’t really say much since the sun was always bright, especially in Los Angeles, but there was something weird about the brightness of it. It didn’t feel warm at all, was more white than yellowish gold, and Richie could hardly feel the sunshine on his skin every time he stepped outside. 

And the people he passed by on the streets were strange too. They seemed odd. One time someone would look like they were gliding across the ground and other times it would look like someone was walking in slow motion. 

And everywhere Richie went, the conversations, noises, sounds, everything felt like it was the same. He’d hear a conversation on the sidewalk and then hear that exact same conversation at a completely different place; almost word for word. The songs of birds and cars passing on the street seemed almost like they were on loop, and Richie couldn’t figure out if he was going insane or not. 

He thought he was. 

But aside from the strangeness of everything, his meeting with his manager, Steve, also could’ve been considered a nightmare. There was a lot of yelling and questions, most of which Richie couldn’t find it in himself to answer, and just listening to him rant on and on about how infuriating Richie was as a client didn’t exactly help to make him feel better. 

Richie knew deep down that Steve was a good dude, a friend at times, and that he was just stressed out from the bombed shows, the newly-cancelled gig in Reno, and he was confused as to why Richie was acting so distant. 

And he wasn’t much happier when Richie suddenly said that he needed a break. 

Away from all of the shows and tours and interviews and all of the crowds and fans and the SNL cameos he did. He needed a break from all of it. Indefinitely. And while Steve didn’t agree, he still let Richie off the hook and told him that he’d make a few calls. 

So now, Richie had nothing to do. Other than moping at home and going out once a week for groceries and coffee, Richie had nothing going on in his life. No meetings, no appointments, no social events, no nothing. It was dull and uneventful and boring, but right now, Richie  _ wanted  _ dull and uneventful and boring. He didn’t want to have another adventure or to be bothered by anybody, he just needed a couple weeks alone, to himself, to understand the difference in his life. 

Another moment happened that tipped Richie off that he was going insane. He was just getting his weekly coffee, nothing out of the ordinary, and it seemed to be a fairly normal day in sunny California. The cars rushed past, the chatter of people filled the air and the sound of honking and tires on asphalt signified the LA atmosphere. The breeze carried the smell of salt and warm earth and the familiar smell of Mary Jane wafted through, which had become an all too recognizable scent the longer Richie lived there. 

The dark-haired man stood in line, mindlessly scrolling through his phone and looking at the text messages he had received from the other Losers, but hadn’t bothered to reply to yet. He still needed some time before he could get back to them. He wasn’t up for talking just yet. 

He had just pocketed his phone and was looking glumly at the floor when Richie heard something that made his breath hitch. It was barely louder than a gust of wind, not even there at all and hardly audible over the sound of conversation and foam hissing, but somehow Richie caught it. And he recognized it.

_ “-wasn’t brave enou-.... -s the one to throw the fenc-”  _

“Wha-?” Richie whispered, his blood running cold.

_ “-on’t know wh- he’s going t-..... -m just so sca-d that... never get t-”  _

“Eds?” 

Richie stepped out of line, tripping over his feet, and looking around the coffee shop, his eyes wide and feeling frantic. His heart leapt in his chest, feeling tighter and tighter as he spun around. But the wind was gone, along with the voice of someone past, and Richie felt even worse than he did before. His vision blurred and he could feel his face begin to crumble. He took in clumsy gasping breaths and darted out of the shop, pulling out his phone again with shaking hands and dialing the first number that came up. 

Richie felt the tears fall down his face, and harshly rubbed them away, feeling more and more frantic and desperate to get back home with every step forward. The phone clicked as it was picked up. 

_ “Hello?”  _

“Bev! I don’t uhmm, I’m sorry if this is a bad time, but  _ fuck-”  _ Richie wiped at his eyes again. 

_ “Richie are you okay?”  _ Bev said worriedly across the line. Richie almost tripped over his feet again as he looked over his shoulder. No one was there to hear him lose his mind. 

“Yeah, uhm, no I don’t think so, I think I'm losing my shit. Pretty sure I should be sent to the fucking nuthouse.” 

_ “What, why?” _

“Well, you know, hearing the voice of your dead best friend tends to make one think they’re crazy.”

Bev was silent over the phone for a beat, and in that moment Richie felt the worst he’s ever been. What the fuck was he thinking? Just calling Bev like this and spouting some insane shit?! Who does that?! 

_ “Richie?” _ she says carefully and hesitantly. Richie hates it. _ “What are you talking about?” _

The man groans and wipes at his face again. By now he’s reached his apartment complex and is already making his way up the stairs, forgoing the elevator, so that he wouldn’t be stuck in the same space as some stranger as he rambles. 

“I’m sorry, it’s just…” He opens the stairway door and quickly finds himself in front of his place and unlocks the door. The one that he left barely an hour ago. “I just….I just I thought I….heard Eddie.” he says in a breath. There’s an intake of air on the other side, and Richie cringes as he berates himself for saying that so clumsily; of course admitting that hearing your dead best friend’s voice would startle anyone. Richie collapsed on the couch and curled up against the arm rest, barely finding the energy to care that he was still wearing his shoes. 

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything, sorry Bev, I’ll just leave you to it. Nothing to see here, just a lonely old man with issues.” 

_ “Richie,” _ Bev says suddenly. Richie shuts up.  _ “Are you okay? You seem really distraught over apologizing for something you don’t need to apologize for.”  _

Richie scoffs. “Yeah well, I am sorry for freaking you out, I just, I didn’t know what to do.” 

_ “I know.”  _

The line is quiet for a moment, the two friends just enjoying each other’s presence despite both of them being miles away from each other. Neither one of them wanted to break the silence with words they don’t feel ready to say. But still, Richie breaks it nonetheless. 

“I miss him, Bev.” He says finally after what feels like forever. He can hear her sigh over the phone. 

_ “I miss him too, Richie.”  _

The man swallows thickly, feeling as a stone lodged itself in his throat, and wipes his eyes one more time. 

“I never got to apologize to him.” 

“ _ What for Richie? You did everything you could to help him.”  _ Richie smirks mirthlessly at that. 

“It was my fault he died, Bev,” he swallows thickly, his breath shuddering as he tried to calm his racked nerves. “If I hadn’t been stupid enough to get caught in the fucking Deadlights, maybe he’d be-” 

_ “Don’t do that to yourself Richie,” _ Bev says, interrupting him harshly. Richie’s taken aback by the sudden change in tone. 

“What?” He mumbles. 

_ “Don’t do that to yourself. We all did everything we could to save him, you most of all. There’s nothing we could’ve changed. You have to accept that. And the fact that we never got to say good-bye makes it worse, I know, but we have to move on Rich.” _

“Wow, since when were you the realist of the group?” Richie jokes, a frail attempt. He hears Bev sigh on the other side and he feels self conscious for trying to make light of their conversation, despite its subject. 

“ _ I’m just trying to be honest here.”  _ she says. 

Well if this is her being honest, then Richie didn’t want to hear it. Maybe it was a mistake calling Bev. “Whelp, that was a great therapy session Ms. Marsh. Same time next Tuesday?”

_ “Rich-” _

“Great, I’ll call you later. Don’t be a stranger and until next time Ringwald.” 

_ “Wai-”  _

Richie hangs up before she can get a word in. That had gotten a little too real for him and he didn’t want to have to deal with that right now. Dealing by not dealing, the coping mechanism to rule them all. He knows that that’s probably gonna come bite him in the ass sooner or later, and he’s proven correct when his phone lights up with another call from Bev. He turns off his phone and chucks it across from him onto one of the other chairs in the room. 

Richie heaves a sigh, one that leaves his shoulders slumping and head hung low, and he crumples in on himself on the couch. He doesn’t even bother with a blanket or even taking off his shoes or jacket, he just wants to fall asleep and never wake up. He wants to press a big pause button on the universe and just wallow in his grief and sorrow until……

Until what? 

Until he felt better? Would he even ever get better? Eddie was  _ gone,  _ Stan was  _ gone,  _ and unless the universe pulled a huge, impossible miracle out of it’s ass, they were both going to stay dead until the end of time. 

No, Richie wasn’t ever going to get better, he doubted he ever would. So no, he didn’t want to press the all mighty pause button so that he could get better; he wanted to press the pause button so that he could be numb. 

Because how could he live with this pain and still go on to live a happy life? It wasn’t even happy to begin with, minus the first eighteen years of his life. Those were spent with the Losers, with  _ Eddie _ , and those were the happiest times he’d ever known. How could he live with this aching pain that made his heart physically hurt? That made it nearly impossible to breath sometimes. Something was missing from him, something cut off, and Richie ached and missed Eddie like he was a missing limb. Because that was what he was essentially… a part of Richie.

Even before going back to Derry Richie felt like something was wrong. He always did. And he tried covering or filling up that hole left inside of him with alcohol or drugs or meaningless one night stands that only offered temporary euphoria. He was always chasing that one thing that would’ve made him whole, that would’ve made this itch go away, and the only time it did happen was when he went back to Derry, and saw that short, firecracker, motherfucker. 

Richie remembers a time when he was young and was just starting to think of the meaning of life and wondering why he was there on this earth, so he went to his dad, who at the time seemed to know everything in the world in Young Richie’s eyes, and he asked Wentworth Tozier,  _ “Dad? What are we doing here? What’s the purpose of everything?”  _ And Richie remembers so clearly what his father said to him, it was as if it was yesterday. His father had sat down, taken off his glasses, and gave Richie a look of contemplation before speaking. 

_ “Alright, well, just imagine that your life and my life and everyone’s life in the entire world is like a jigsaw puzzle. And as we go through life, we’re slowly piecing it together and figuring it out and adding bit by bit based on experiences and lessons that we’ve learned. But here’s the thing... everyone has lost the box for their puzzle. So they all don’t know what they’re working towards or what it’ll look like in the end, and we’re all just basically guessing. But of course, we know how to start a puzzle, you start with the corners. Your friends, family, interests, and your job. But as you get older, these corners will change and morph and they will look different the older you get.” _

_ “Okay,” Richie remembers replying, this young dumbass of a kid asking his father what the meaning of life is. “But then what’s the main part?”  _

_ “Well,” Wentworth said, “That’s your partner piece. The person who completes you and makes you whole and this person, whom you’ve probably never met before, will fit perfectly into your life and make you feel complete for the very first time in your life.” _

_ “Like you and mom?” Young Richie asked. His father chuckled. “Yes, just like me and your mom.” _

_ “Huh,” Young Richie said, “That’s pretty cool.” His father chuckled.  _

_ “Yes, I think it’s pretty cool too. But Richie, be careful with your partner piece. Sometimes you can pick the wrong person and you could change your entire puzzle just to fit them into it, and sometimes you’ll find that you and your partner are building towards very different puzzles. You don’t want to give up everything that you’ve worked towards, and have it changed into something you don’t recognize anymore. Be smart with your jigsaw, and if you do manage to find that perfect partner piece, then Rich, you’ve finished it. That’s all I wish for you, son, for you to finish your puzzle.”  _

Those words and that analogy had stuck with Richie his entire life, and when he met the Losers, Stan, Bill, Eddie, Ben, Mike, and Bev, he knew immediately that they were all going to be a part of his puzzle. And the older he grew, and more knowledgeable he became, he began to realize that he didn’t need to go out and find his partner piece. For he had already found it in Eddie. 

The one person who made him feel complete and whole, and the one person who he wanted to spend everyday, all day with no matter what. Maybe at the time Richie didn’t fully realize what he was feeling, but he knew without a doubt that Eddie was going to be a part of his puzzle one way or another. 

So no, Richie didn’t want to get better, he wanted to be numb. Because feeling nothing sounded a hell of a lot better than feeling the pain of losing Edward Kaspbrack. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I absolutely love the Jigsaw Puzzle Analogy, I heard it from a comedian, Daniel Sloss, and he talks about it and he dives deeper into the metaphor and its AMAZING!! I highly recommend watching his shows, they're so funny and yeah they're crass and sometimes gross, but he talks about the Real Shit and it's GOOD! He's probably one of my favorites and i love listening to his stuff. 
> 
> Also, im so glad that i finally got the next chapter updated, and again, im gonna say that idk when i'll update next because you know ADHD can be a bitch and i have the attention span of a fish. Or someone with ADHD. And i actually have an outline for this fic!! Let's hope i follow through with it, my fingers are crossed. 
> 
> I hope the quarantine is treating you all well, hope you all got something to help you stay sane, and until next time you guys! I love all of you!! <3<3<3


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